


The Truth is Plain to See

by darkrose



Series: Place of Grey Stone [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reverse History, Breathplay, Collars, Dubious Consent, F/M, Flogging, Humiliation, M/M, Magic, Piercings, Public Claiming, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrose/pseuds/darkrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After putting down an attempted rebellion in the city the shemlen call Kirkwall, elvhen warrior Fenris finds himself in possession of one male human mage, slightly used.</p><p>Backstory for this extremely AU can be found <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/824071/">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a Dragon Age II Kink Meme prompt requesting Fenris/Hawke in an AU where the elves defeated the Tevinters and enslaved humans. Some canon details have been changed; for example, the children of humans and elves appear mostly elven instead of entirely human. Many, many thanks to Bellaknoti and Katiebour, whose work on deconstructing the elven language for DA has been invaluable. A glossary of terms I'm using can be found at the end of each chapter; a more thorough backstory is posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/824071) and updated as needed.
> 
> Title is from "A Whiter Shade of Pale", by Procul Harum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After putting down the human rebellion in Kirkwall, Fenris is ordered to return to the city and take command from the incompetent Orsino.

Fenris had heard that there were human cities that were not unpleasant. Even accounting for the evidence of the rebellion--fires from still-smoldering buildings and human dead waiting to burn, the acrid scents of blood and smoke thick in the air--the city the shemlen called Kirkwall was a grim, ugly place. _"Place of Grey Stone", indeed._ He examined the bottoms of his bare feet.

"I think I stepped in something back there," he said, disgusted.

"Someone, more like." His second-in-command, Feynriel, glanced over his shoulder. "I don't know how it would affect your fighting, but since we'll be here for a while, you may want to consider coverings for your feet."

Fenris shook his head. "I don't know how anyone could stand living here. This is no place for elvhen." When Feynriel didn't respond, Fenris stopped to look at him and winced. Feynriel's eyes were down and the tips of his ears were pink. Fenris turned and gripped the mage's shoulders.

"I wasn't trying to imply anything, lethallin, you know that. People can talk whatever nonsense they want; there's no other mage I'd want as my mi'lethal. Especially not now." He reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one of his friend's ears, noticeably less pointed than Fenris' own, looking into friend's blue eyes. Like Fenris, Feynriel's body was covered in sinuous lines of lyrium that marked him as consecrated to Fen'Harel, like all elvhen born on moonless nights. But being Wolf-Kin hadn't stopped the whispers that his true father was a shemlen slave. Fenris had never--would never--ask his friend about it, but he knew it was a sensitive subject.

"Come on." He clapped Feynriel on the back. "I want to get to the Sha'len'an so we can get this over with."

Feynriel nodded. They continued in silence for some time until he nudged Fenris. "It's strange to see the streets so deserted. Orsino must have instituted a curfew."

"That would imply that Orsino was competent," Fenris pointed out, "In which case, none of this would have happened at all."

"I suppose that's true." Feynriel sighed. "It's all such a stupid waste."

The gates to the Sha'len'an, the district of the city reserved for the elvhen and their shemlen slaves, were shut when Fenris and his warriors arrived. Emerald Guard-Captain Lia opened the gates long enough to let the warband enter, shutting them as soon as they were inside. 

Orsino was standing in front of his residence accompanied by his pet shem, a tall, woman with pale gold hair and blue eyes that didn't hold a shred of warmth. Orsino had introduced her earlier as his bodyguard and even allowed her to carry a greatsword despite the fact that with the city under martial law, shemlen were forbidden to bear arms. If the shemlen had become restive enough for the man to need a bodyguard, shouldn't that have been a sign that things were spiraling out of control?

Then again, perhaps the bodyguard story was true. Fenris couldn't imagine why Orsino would want an ice sculpture in his bed.

"It is always an honor to have you in this city, Aman'harelen," Orsino said, bowing deeply to both Fenris and Feynriel. It wasn't strictly necessary, since in theory all elvhen were equals, but Orsino wouldn't have been put in charge of one of the largest human cities if he was a complete fool, and only a complete fool would fail to accord proper respect to one sworn to the service of the Dread Wolf. "I confess I wasn't expecting to greet you again so soon. I assure you that things are returning to normal after this, ah, minor unrest."

"Unrest?" Feynriel was incredulous. "The Emerald Guard is perfectly capable of handling riots. The Council wouldn't have ordered us to stop fighting demons in the Deadlands and come here to deal with 'minor unrest'."

Orsino opened his mouth to protest, but Fenris cut him off. "My mi'lethal is correct. Fourteen elvhen dead, along with nearly two hundred shemlen. This was the most serious human uprising in a thousand years, and it occurred under _your_ watch. The Council of Hahren would like an explanation of how this happened."

"Oh! Of course," Orsino looked relieved; Fenris knew that wouldn't last. "I assume I'll need to prepare a report for you to deliver?"

Fenris shook his head. "You misunderstand. They want an accounting from you _in person_. In your absence, I will be assuming guardianship of the city."

"For...for how long?"

Fenris smiled, his expression appropriately wolfish. "Indefinitely."

Orsino bit his lower lip. "I...there will be preparations to be made..."

"I understand that the leader of the revolt still lives for some reason. I will rectify that tomorrow," Fenris told him. "Following his execution, you will depart for Arlathan."

"Of course, Aman'harel." Orsino swallowed hard. "And what of my--of Meredith?"

 _So he is bedding her after all._ Fenris curled his lip. "You will not need a bodyguard in Arlathan, but if you wish, your concubine can join the others in the Elana'shemlen." He rarely agreed with the proponents of the Vir Atish'an, but he had to admit that allowing the elvhen to keep their humans in an encampment outside the city was...not the way of the People. "Or, you can simply release her and permit her to return to live among her people."

"If you think you're going to stash me in some--some harem somewhere, you can think again--" the woman burst out, her cold eyes suddenly blazing.

Fenris was tall for one of the elvhen, but he still had to reach up to backhand her across the mouth. "No one was talking to you, shem."

She touched a hand to her face and stared at the blood from where Fenris' gauntlets had cut her, looking almost as if she couldn't believe he'd dared to touch her.

"Was that really necessary?" Orsino tossed a quick healing spell at the woman before turning to glare at Fenris. 

"If you plan to take your pet to the Elana'shemlen you'll be expected to keep her under control," Fenris said coldly. "Your apparent inability to do so reflects poorly on you."

After a moment, Orsino dropped his eyes, his shoulders slumping. "Might we speak about this privately, Aman'harel Fenris? There are...complications."

Fenris was utterly baffled. "What complications? Shemlen don't live long enough to cause complications."

"Oh, you _didn't_...." Feynriel murmured from behind Fenris, who arched an eyebrow at his friend. "You know that mages can use lyrium to replenish their mana, correct? It's true for shemlen mages as well as for us."

"But she's not a mage, is she?"

"No...someone noticed that An'ethda'lanen mages seem to live longer than ordinary shems. There's a rumor--well, it's one of the things I'm supposed to look into, actually--that some of our mages have been giving it to their favorites, trying to keep then around for a few more years--"

"You would know, all about that, wouldn't you!" Orsino shouted. Feynriel scowled, but Fenris activated his markings and Orsino took a step back.

 _Yes, my vallas'elgar aren't just to look pretty or protect me from the Quickening. You forget who--and what--I am at your peril._ "Go on, Feynriel."

Feynriel ran a hand through his hair. "It seems that for shemlen, even small amounts of lyrium is addictive. If he's been giving it to her and she stops taking it suddenly, she could get sick, maybe even die."

Fenris didn't even try to hold back his growl--he was Wolf Kin after all--and plunged a hand into Orsino's chest. "No wonder you couldn't keep the lid on the pot," he snarled, "You were too busy worrying about your pet. Were you fucking her, or was it the other way around?" Orsino's look might have been confirmation, or it might have been a natural reaction to someone squeezing his heart; Fenris didn't know and didn't care.

Much though he would have liked to simply kill Orsino, he was still one of the People, and he had the right to plead his case before them. Fenris withdrew his hand and let the blue glow of his lyrium markings fade. "Lyta, Theron," he called, and two of his warband stepped forward. Neither was Fen'lin, but both were competent arcane warriors who should be able to handle a single mage. "Take him back to the city as quickly as possible; use the horses if you need to. I'll alert the Council that you're on the way."

Orsino didn't resist, but he did look over his shoulder at his woman as the Mahariel twins marched him away. Fenris turned to Meredith and frowned. "Any ideas about what to do with her? If he got her addicted to lyrium, then I suppose we're responsible for her now."

"Hmm...Feynriel frowned, tugging on his hair. "Send her to the An'ethda'lanen? We have healers there who are trained in working with humans, and they--"

"No! I won't be your prisoner! Keep your filthy magic away from me!" Meredith reached for her greatsword, but before she could draw it, Fenris was in motion, a blur of silver and blue. She fell heavily, armor crashing. Fenris pulled his blade from her chest.

"Captain, if you'd be so good as to deal with this?" Lia nodded, beckoning one of her guards over to remove the body. "I don't suppose you know why, in the name of the Dread Wolf, Orsino allowed a slave to wear armor and carry a sword?" Fenris only just managed to keep from shouting.

Lia shook her head. "He was besotted with her, Creators only know why. She could come and go as she pleased, and the way she spoke to him in public....if things hadn't gone down the way they had, I was planning to write to the Council in Arlathan. It's good that you're taking command." She saluted him, fist to chest. "What are my orders, Aman'harel?"

Fenris exhaled slowly. Having the guard captain's support would certainly help ease the transition of power. "The curfew stays in place," he instructed. "Get some of the shemlen out to deal with their dead during the day. Besides the leader, were any other rebels captured alive?"

"Only one. They're both being held in the dungeons. Would you like to go there now?"

When the elvhen defeated the Tevinters, only their capital Minrathous was completely annihilated, a glass plain the only feature in the area now known as the Din'an, the Deadlands. In the other cities the elves sent to keep watch over the humans built anew over the remains of the forbidding stone architecture. Beneath the graceful ironwood arches of the Sha'len's residence were the foundations of the old cells where the Imperial Regent had tortured slaves and prisoners. The Veil between the waking world and the Beyond was thin there, and the proximity to the spirit world made Fenris and Feynriel's markings glow faintly blue.

Lia dispelled the barrier in front of the first cell. The occupant stood, staring down at his captors with undisguised contempt. He was like a steel blade, eyes, hair, beard, and the ragged remains of his robes all a cold grey. Even his pale skin had a greyish tinge to it; Fenris knew that was due to the silver collar around his neck, glowing lyrium runes etched onto the surface to continuously drain his mana. 

"Danarius," he says. "A fitting choice of name, I suppose, for one who claims to be descended from the magisters of that broken empire."

Every hundred years or so, in response to a poor harvest, an incursion of demons, or plain incompetent management, the shemlen in the cities rebelled against their elvhen overlords. Typically, the ringleaders invoked the pedigree of the Tevinter Imperium to boost their status, only to discover that centuries of patient tutelage had worked; it was an article of faith among the humans in the elvhenan that the Imperial magisters had brought their fate on themselves. No matter how much they chafed under elvhen control, few shemlen actually wanted to return to the rule of the corrupt mage-lords. The Emerald Guard always captured and executed the leaders of the rebellion and, if necessary, quietly replaced the Sha'len with someone more suitable. 

The recent uprising in the An'dorfdurgen had been different. Those tasked with ferreting out secrets had little success at finding shemlen willing to inform on the rebels. It wasn't until several elvhen had been killed that they even had a name to go on, and without Feynriel's unique talents, they might still be searching for Danarius. 

"What did you hope to gain?" Fenris asked him. "Surely you know that no human rebellion has succeeded in the two thousand years since Minrathous was destroyed. You shemlen have proven yourselves to be unruly children. Each time you rise up against us, you only prove that you cannot be trusted to govern yourselves. Did you honestly think this would accomplish anything?"

Danarius remained silent and unmoving. Fenris had expected nothing else.

"Make peace with whatever profane gods you worship," he said. "You will meet them tomorrow." He nodded once to Lia, and she raised the cell barrier again. Even through the shimmering force-field, Fenris could feel Danarius' dead grey eyes on him.

Only one other cell was occupied. The prisoner was curled up on the stone bench that presumably served as a bed; he slowly sat up and shoved tangled black hair from his face when Fenris entered the tiny cell, Feynriel a step behind him. He was young by shemlen standards, but there were lines around his mouth that spoke of pain and a sallow tinge to his dark skin, perhaps due to the mana-draining collar he wore. 

"Forgive me if I don't stand, sha'len," he said, his voice rough with disuse. "I'm...a little tired. I'm assuming you're hear to tell me that won't be a problem much longer." 

Fenris was taken aback--how did this shem know that he was in charge of the city?--until he remembered that the shemlen used "sha'len" as a term of respect toward any unfamiliar elvhen. _Something I will have to become accustomed to, I suppose._ "This is the apprentice?" he asked Feynriel.

His second nodded. "Yes, I think so. Danarius was definitely drawing power from him...until I stunned him, that is."

The human squinted at them and tilted his head slightly. "I remember you. You were in my dream."

Feynriel looked down. "I was. We found blood that we suspected was used in blood magic, and I was able to use that to enter your dreams, and from there, to locate Danarius. I...am sorry." 

Fenris shook his head. Feynriel was not only a powerful spellcaster in his own right, he could use his vallas'elgar to enter the minds of others in their dreams, shaping the Beyond to his will. It was an rare and useful gift even among the Fen'lin, but one that Feynriel had never been truly comfortable with.

The human bent over, hair veiling his face, and for a moment, Fenris was afraid he was having some sort of seizure. Then he heard a strange croaking noise and realized that the man was _laughing_.

"You....sorry...that's too funny..." Suddenly he sat up again, brushing his hair aside with a long-fingered hand. "Is he dead? Please say he's not dead."

Fenris frowned, unable to make sense of the laughter. "He will be, soon, and you with him."

"Right, just...if I can ask one favor, please...kill him first? I want to watch the bastard die." The venom, the weight of his hatred was like a tangible thing hanging in the air.

"You weren't with him by choice, were you?" Feynriel said softly. Fenris gave him a sharp look. _Tell me you're not feeling sorry for him..._

The human's smile was too bright. "Oh, I had a choice, sha'len. When he found out that I was a mage, he told me that I could become his test subject--I mean, apprentice--or he would tell the guards where to find me so I could get locked up in the Spire."

It took Fenris a moment to remember that the Spire was what the shemlen called the An'ethda'lanen, presumably because they couldn't pronounce it properly. "That _is_ where you human mages belong."

"Yes, well...some birds don't thrive in cages." 

"Fenris....do we really have to kill him? Look--" Feynriel went over to the man and lifted the threadbare tunic to show his chest, surprisingly hairless for a human. Smooth skin the color of teak wood was marred by what Fenris at first took to be random scars, perhaps from a whip. Looking closer, he could see that the thin lines formed a pattern, one that looked to his untrained eyes like some form of arcane sigil. There were other scars as well, on his arms and back where he had been used as a living canvas.

"Big surprise, a blood mage who likes to play with knives." The man yanked his tunic down, dark eyes flashing. Fenris felt a twinge of unexpected guilt; the shem would be dead soon; it seemed cruel to rob him of what little dignity he had left.

"What do you suggest we do with him, mi'lethal?" he asked Feynriel. "I don't think he would thank us for taking him to the An'ethda'lanen."

"I'd really rather you killed me." The human's shoulders slumped and he looked away from the elves, the spark of defiance gone from his eyes. 

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose. The Fen'lin were meant to be living weapons, tools of destruction aimed at whatever threatened the elvhenan. A weapon didn't choose its own target, but that was precisely the role Fenris had been ordered to fill.

Then several things happened at once.

Fenris felt a tiny, fragile thread of magic, like an itch on his markings. He glanced down, eyes widening in shock as he watched the human tracing the lines of his vallas'elgar with one finger where they showed in the patch of skin between his sleeve and gauntlet. His markings flared, the lyrium blindingly bright in the dark cell, and he reached out and grasped the human's heart. At the same time, Feynriel activated his own vallas'elgar, and the human made a sound that would have been a scream if he'd been able to breathe around Fenris' hand. His lips moved in a silent whisper, "Please..."

Fenris released his grip and slowly removed his hand from the human's chest. He curled up into a tight ball gasping and murmuring "Sorry...sorry...ir abelas..." 

"Are you insane? Were you just trying to get me to kill you quickly?" Fenris demanded. He wrapped a hank of long black hair around one hand and yanked the man's head up. 

"No! I just...I've never seen anything like that...they're so beautiful..."

Fenris blinked. 

He knew how others saw his markings. To the shemlen, he was a figure out of darkest nightmare, one of the pitiless avenging warriors who had swept through the capital of the mighty Tevinter Imperium, obliterating everything in their wake and then crossing into the Beyond to destroy the magisters' spirits as well as their bodies, removing them forever from the weave of the world. To his own people, he was a symbol of a victory won at a price many felt was too high, a bargain that some said changed what it meant to be elvhen. Most elves avoided those sworn to the Dread Wolf, as they were considered half in the spirit-realm already.

Only one other person had ever told Fenris his markings were beautiful, and he was standing beside him, looking thoughtful.

"What are you thinking, lethallin?" he asked. Feynriel tapped a finger against his nose several times before answering.

"There may be a third option." He contemplated a point just over Fenris' shoulder. "All shemlen mages must live in the An'ethda'lanen, with one exception...."

Fenris had an idea of where this was going. He didn't like it. "Yes?"

"If you claim a shemlen mage as your slave, he can live wherever you wish." His tone was as even as if he were discussing the weather, but Fenris could see the tension in the set of his friend's jaw. _"You would know, wouldn't you?"_

Fenris took a deep breath. "What would I do with him, though? I'm not interested in having him in my bed."

"What, you don't think I'm attractive?" The human sounded genuinely offended, but when Fenris looked at him, he grinned and winked.

"You are...very strange."

The human's grin widened. "It's been remarked."

"Ah..." Feynriel coughed discreetly. "You haven't been around shem--around humans much. If you're going to be acting as Sha'len, and you actually want to do things right, then you need to try to understand them."

"Like Orsino did?" Fenris growled.

Feynriel's expression was strangely serene. "Like my mother did." He steepled his fingers under his chin. "Creators know she has her flaws, and she can be distressingly short-sighted for one of the People, but...she tried, when she was here. Sha'len means "one who protects". Maybe he can help you remember that."

"This is delightful, really--I do so love being talked about like I'm not here--but can we maybe come to a decision here? I'd just like to know if I'm going to be dead, imprisoned or enslaved this time tomorrow." 

_I can hear the Trickster laughing at me from the Beyond._ "I'm going to regret this," Fenris muttered, but how was justice served by killing someone who was, when all was said and done, Danarius' victim? And he did seem to have an sort of courage that was admirable, if odd. "Human. What is your name?"

The man smiled as though he was embarking on a great adventure. "My given name is Julian," he said, "But pretty much everyone calls me Hawke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bellaknoti](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language) and [Katiebour](http://archiveofourown.org/works/359253/chapters/582281) have done amazing work to deconstruct the elven language for the DAverse based on the bits and pieces we get in canon. I've stolen shamelessly from them to cobble together a glossary for use in this AU. I focused on how things sound more than grammatical correctness; any bizarre or nonsensical formulations are entirely my fault.
> 
>    
>  **Aman'harel:** ( _dread defender_ ) formal honorific used to refer to a Fen'lin; sometimes shortened to "Aman"
> 
>  **An'dorfdurgen:** ( _place of grey stone_ ) Kirkwall
> 
>  **An'ethda'lanen:** ( _place safe children_ ) combination prison/school where human mages are kept; equivalent to the Circle
> 
>  **Elana'shemlen:** ( _our place [where we] allow humans_ ) permanent camp outside Arlathan where humans are permitted to live
> 
>  **Fen'lin:** ( _wolf blood_ ) Wolf-Kin, the elvhen born during the dark phase of the moon who are dedicated at birth to the Dread Wolf as part of the bargain Shartan made to free the gods during the Tevinter War
> 
>  **mi'lethal:** ( _blade kin_ ) second-in-command of a warband; used for mages and non-mages alike
> 
>  **Hahren:** ( _respected elder_ ) member of the governing council; includes all clan heads, senior mages, master crafters, warriors, etc.
> 
>  **Sha'len:** ( _one who protects_ ) among elves, a governor of a human settlement; used as a term of respect from humans when addressing an unfamiliar elf
> 
>  **Sha'len'an:** the residence of the Sha'len; can also refer to the district where city elves live
> 
>  **shemlen'an:** ( _human place_ ) any human city
> 
>  **vallas'elgar:** ( _spirit writing_ ) lyrium tattoos, including the extensive full-body markings of the Fen'lin
> 
>  **vallaslin:** ( _blood writing_ ) facial tattoos worn to indicate clan affiliation and/or patron god
> 
>  **Vir Atish'an:** ( _Way of Peace_ ) a faction among the elvhen that advocates complete separation from the shemlen


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke knows that there are worse things than slavery, especially if you're a human and a mage.

Hawke's ear still hurt. The elven mage who could invade dreams had offered to heal it, although he'd admitted sheepishly that he wasn't much of a healer. Hawke wasn't either. Just knowing that he could, however, was worth the slight burn that always seemed to be a side effect of his healing spells. Having his magic restored made him almost giddy--at least it did until his new master demonstrated what would happen if he attempted to turn his magic against him. The elf-- _Fenris,_ he reminded himself--grabbed his wrist and somehow _sucked_ the mana out of him, sending him to his knees. 

Danarius had done that sometimes, though he preferred using Hawke's blood rather than his mana. He'd always get the same heavy-lidded look of pleasure that Fenris had; the difference was that Hawke would have been perfectly content to stay on his knees for his new master. Just thinking about it made almost as hard as he'd been when it first happened. He slid down into the cooling bath water, trying to will his erection to go down.

He touched the piercing again, a wide band of silver that had been driven into the cartilage of his upper ear, with a black gem that was magically attuned to both him and to Fenris. Short of cutting off a chunk of his ear it couldn't be removed, and even if he somehow managed, Fenris would know the instant he did. Hawke suspected his master wouldn't be inclined to be merciful a second time.

There was a certain amount of irony in his current predicament. For over twenty years, he'd managed to avoid the Emerald Guard and stay free, only to end up first as virtual slave to a blood mage and now as an actual slave to one of the Wolf-Kin, the spirit warriors who'd rendered the Tevinter Imperium little more than a fading memory. _Except to someone like Danarius._ Anders would no doubt rail at the injustice of it all, but aside from feeling vaguely ashamed for once again failing to live up to his father's example, Hawke couldn't bring himself to be all that upset about the whole thing; he'd never expected to survive Danarius' rebellion, so this felt like a win.

Especially since his new master was quite possibly the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen.

It wasn't just the way his tattoos encircled his arms like vines, silver against golden skin until they glowed blue. And it wasn't just the leaf-green eyes, or the white hair that Hawke badly wanted to run his fingers through to see if it was as soft as it looked. Once, his father had taken him out into an open field during a thunderstorm in order to teach him how to call and channel lightning. Hawke had never forgotten the exhilaration of grasping power in its rawest form, knowing that one slight slip could mean death. Touching Fenris would be like playing with lightning.

Hawke let one hand drift down to his crotch and stroked himself lightly, imagining himself taking his master's cock into his mouth--did he have those markings there too?--and licking and sucking him until the lyrium flared brilliant blue. It had been a long time since he'd done this purely for his own pleasure, and even longer since he'd touched himself to mental images of someone he actually wanted.

A sharp rap on the door of the baths nearly made him jump out of his skin, and he heard the elven woman who'd introduced herself as the residence steward, yell, "You can't stay in there all day--hurry up!' 

"I'll be right there, sha'len!" Hawke called. He scrambled out of the tub, pulled on the clothes he'd been given earlier and ran his hands through his damp hair in a vain attempt to put in in a semblance of order before opening the door. 

His master was able to reach into someone's chest and crush his heart. Hawke didn't find him nearly as terrifying as this ordinary-looking elf who barely came up to his chest. She looked him up and down and snorted, clearly unimpressed. 

"Hopefully the Aman will give me a better idea of what he wants you to wear, but I suppose this will have to do for now. Cullen!" A tall human man with curly red hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee stepped forward.

The steward nodded at Hawke. "This one's just been...acquired by the new Sha'len. Show him around and make sure he knows the important basics."

Cullen bowed his head, a large tree bending down to converse with a sapling. "Of course, Mistress Orana." Once she'd bustled off, he looked up and smiled at Hawke. 

"Hello, nice to--well." His smile vanished. "I guess I shouldn't say that it's nice to meet you, under the circumstances."

"Probably not, but it's alright." Hawke extended his hand; Cullen shook it. "I'm Hawke."

"This way...." Cullen led him down the back stairs to the ground floor. "The inside hasn't changed much from when the Tevinters ruled, which is why we have the water piped in. The guard barracks are over there, through that door. The guards don't usually give us trouble--Captain Lia doesn't have a lot of tolerance for that sort of thing--but I don't know about the warband." He gave Hawke a sidelong look. "Though I doubt you'll have to worry about it. Mistress Orana said that the new Sha'len is Wolf-Kin?"

"Yes," Hawke said, and Cullen shivered. 

"I'm sorry. I hope...well, maybe he won't be too harsh." Quickly he changed the subject. "I apologize if it seems like I'm prying, but are you--"

"I'm only part Rivaini," Hawke told him. _And unfortunately, it's not a big enough part._ It was rare to see someone with round ears and skin the color of Hawke's who didn't have elaborate facial tattoos and piercings. He'd asked his father once why they couldn't just get the tattoos and pretend, since most of the family was dark enough. 

_"What about your mother? She couldn't pass. Besides, the Rivaini are very aware of their privilege as humans allowed to live without elven oversight, and they guard it carefully. No real Rivaini tattoo artist would do clan tattoos for anyone outside of their borders. Even if we could find someone to do so, the first time a Rivaini asked specific questions about our clan, we'd be blown--assuming that the tattoo artist wasn't involved in a scheme to scoop up fools and sell them into slavery."_

_Malcolm Hawke had paused, idly rolling a tiny ball of light over his fingers. "I'm sorry, Julian. I don't know why my grandmother came south, but she did, and there's no point wishing otherwise. We are who we are."_

Cullen looked startled. "How'd you know I was going to ask that?"

Hawke gave him a tiny smile. "Everyone does." 

Cullen stopped in front of an open door. "These are the old slave quarters. Mistress Orana's rooms are in the back. Bran--he's the cook--and Saemus and I sleep out here."

"There are more slaves, though, right?"

"Oh yes..." Cullen turned a shade of pink that clashed badly with his hair. "The others stay in their masters' rooms. You've...um...I know everything thinks there's only one reason the elves have slaves, but that's not always...Bran's here because he's a very good cook, Saemus is fast and can run messages all over town, and I...well." He smiled, a bit crookedly. "I carry heavy stuff and get things off high shelves for Mistress Orana."

Hawke badly wanted to know how someone like Cullen had ended up as a slave; he certainly didn't seem like the type to be stirring up sedition. He doubted that it was appropriate to ask, though, so he kept quiet.

"These are Master Zevran's rooms," Cullen said, indicating another non-descript door. He gave Hawke a long look. "Master Zevran is the head of the Ravens in Kirkwall. I assume I don't need to tell you to be careful, even if your master is the Sha'len."

Hawke shook his head. The Emerald Guard were dangerous, but they were also easy to spot. The Ravens moved in the shadows, and by the time you realized they were watching you, it was far too late to run. Even Danarius had been wary of them, moving from one bolthole to another the moment he heard whispers that the Ravens were asking questions in the area.

Cullen led them back up the main stairs. "Mistress Athenril--she's the Senechal--has her rooms on that side." His tone was carefully neutral. "Be careful around her; she can be a bit, ah, handsy sometimes. The Sha'len's audience chamber is behind those double doors there with with the guards in front. And finally..." He stopped in front of a door marked with the tree crest of Arlathan. "The Sha'len's suite."

Peering around the corner, Hawke saw a smallish room that was set up as an office and a bedroom that looked like it was almost as large as his family's old house. A dark-haired human boy of no more than sixteen was changing the linens on the massive four-poster bed.

"Saemus, this is Hawke," Cullen said, "He belongs to the new Sha'len."

Saemus nodded. "Hello," he mumbled, so quietly that Hawke could barely hear him.

"Come down to dinner when you're done up here," Cullen instructed. "We'll make sure to save something for you. Oh, and Saemus? Make sure you get..." Cullen pointed at the bed, and Hawke's eyes widened when he saw the soft rope tied to the bedposts. Saemus turned bright red and quickly went to work removing the rope. Cullen touched Hawke's arm and steered him out of the bedroom.

"So...." Hawke began, but Cullen cut him off. 

"Not here. Come on. We're finished up here, anyway."

Once they reached the ground floor Cullen ducked into the slave quarters, pulling Hawke with him. "Look," he said after closing the door. "I don't know if you've been in Kirkwall long, but it's pretty public knowledge that Sha'len Orsino wasn't that effective. Meredith--his slave--is--was--pretty...um...assertive, I guess you'd say. Some people even said she told him what to do."

Both of Hawke's eyebrows went up. "That would explain the ropes, I suppose."

Cullen blushed. "Yes. Meredith could be a little dictatorial. I didn't mind her too much, but not all of us felt that way. She didn't deserve to die like that." He touched two fingers to his forehead, lips, and chest. 

"What happened to her?"

"Weren't you there? The Wolf-Kin commander ran her through."

"Your mistress wasn't exaggerating when she said I was new," Hawke explained. "He...acquired me a couple of hours ago." Before Cullen could ask for details, Hawke changed the subject. "You're an Andrastean?" 

"Yes. I mean, I'm not as devout as Sebastian--he wanted to become a Chantry brother--but I try to follow the Path." He paused, clearly waiting for Hawke to say the same.

The only religious sentiment Malcolm Hawke had ever expressed in his son's hearing had been when he was upset at an inanimate object and he'd mutter, "Dread Wolf take you." He and Leandra hadn't raised their three children to follow any particular creed; a mage with two mage children was hardly going to adhere to a faith which preached that human mages were cursed from birth. "I'm not really all that religious," Hawke said. 

"Oh..." Cullen looked a bit lost, like he wasn't sure how to respond. "Are you hungry? We should probably head to the kitchen, so you can meet the others and get something to eat. 

In the five days he'd spent in the dungeons, Hawke had eaten better than he had for most of the three years he'd been in Kirkwall, but it had been a while since he'd last been fed. _Who knew that almost having your heart crushed in your chest could work up an appetite?_ "I could definitely eat," he told Cullen. 

The residence kitchens were small but comfortable looking. Saemus had apparently finished his chores and was sittng at wooden table with two human men, one blond and one dark-haired; a fourth joined them as Hawke and Cullen came into the room. The blond looked up; Hawke noticed that while his ears weren't that pointy, his eyes were an amber shade rarely seen on humans...unless they had elven mothers. All of them had piercings similar to the one Hawke now wore; the two he hadn't yet met both wore leather collars as well.

"You must be the new Sha'len's boy," the blond said. "I'm Alistair, this is Sebastian--" he nodded at the brunet "--Saemus, and this gentleman who feeds us is Bran."

"I'm Hawke." It no longer seemed strange to use just his family name, like he should look around for his father.

"For the record, Sebastian is Athenril's, Bran, Cullen and Saemus all belong to Orana, and lucky me, I'm Zev's. Zevran, to you."

" _Master_ Zevran," Sebastian corrected him. 

"Well, of course." Alistair shuffled a deck of cards. "The really important question is, do you play Wicked Grace?"

"I'm not very good," Hawke admitted, taking a seat at the table. 

Alistair grinned. "That's fine. Sebastian will probably appreciate letting me take someone else's money for a change."

"You have money?"

"Not much, but we all get an allowance to buy personal stuff," Alistair explained. "Truthfully, we could be a lot worse off. We can go anywhere in the city we want provided we're ostensibly on 'master's business'. We have decent food--more than decent, sorry Bran--and we don't have to share a room with ten other people. Orana even tries to keep the masters out of here, so we can have a bit of space for our own."

Bran stood, ladled stew into a bowl and handed it to Hawke. "Careful, it's hot." Hawke nodded his thanks. 

Alistair started shuffling a deck of cards. "Orana mentioned that you were new. It can be difficult to get used to at first. As long as you remember that we're all slaves, and none of us outranks the others, you'll be fine."

"I gather Meredith didn't?"

"She seemed to be under the mistaken impression that her ears were pointed," Alistair said dryly, "And the former Sha'len never bothered to disabuse her of that notion."

Sebastian made the Andrastean sign. "It would have been hard for her to adjust with Orsino gone, but still...a pity."

"If you say so," Alistair muttered. Sebastian gave him a sharp look.

"Let's hope things will settle down now. I expect that executing the damned mages who started it all will help."

Hawke considered letting that slide; they'd find out the truth soon enough. It felt dishonest, though, not a good way to start things off. He exhaled slowly, then took a deep breath. "Mage. Singular. There were two, but only one will be executed."

He watched as the implications of his statement sank in. Neither Bran nor Saemus seemed especially perturbed, but Sebastian was frowning and Cullen, who'd been perfectly friendly five minutes ago, was glowering at Hawke. Alistair just looked curious.

"A renegade human mage is directly involved in the rebellion that led to a dozen dead elves and nearly two hundred dead humans, yet the new Sha'len, who is also Fen'lin, chooses to neither kill you nor send you to the Spire," he said, staring intently at Hawke. "And while I certainly wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers--nothing personal, my friend--I've got to think that it wasn't your stunning good looks that made him spare you. So what was it?"

Hawke had been asking himself that ever since Fenris had shoved him out of the cell. "I think..." he said slowly, "...that he felt sorry for me."

"Sorry?" Cullen hissed. " _Your_ master said he'd kill ten humans for every elven life lost. I haven't been allowed to see my family in days; I don't even know if they're still alive. And he lets _you_ live because he feels _sorry_ for you?"

Hawke opened his mouth to retort that he'd thought the whole thing was a bad idea and he'd tried to talk Danarius out of it. The problem was that he hadn't done the one thing that could have stopped the revolt before it started. Had he gone to the Guard, no one would have died...but he'd have been taken straight to the Spire. _And spirits save me, if I had to do it all over again, I don't know that I'd have chosen differently._ He stared down at his hands.

"Why weren't you in the Spire in the first place?" Sebastian asked. 

"I...don't do well in captivity,"

"Which does make your current situation somewhat ironic," Bran said dryly.

Before Hawke could come up with an appropriate, yet witty riposte, he heard Orana's voice saying, "I can fetch him; there's really no need--"

Everyone scrambled to their feet as Fenris came into the kitchen, with Orana right behind him. Hawke stared at his master, entranced all over again by the pattern of sinuous lines just barely visible under the black armor he wore like a second skin. Only when Fenris raised an incongrously black eyebrow did Hawke remember himself and look down.

"Come," Fenris said, and Hawke followed obediently, falling into step several paces behind the two elves. They went back upstairs to the Sha'len's suite. Hawke noticed that Saemus had removed the rope from the bedposts. 

"Here you are, Aman," Orana said. "If anything is not to your liking, please don't hesitate to let me know."

"It's fine, except...where is he supposed to sleep?" Fenris asked, nodding in Hawke's general direction.

"Sha'len Orsino kept Meredith with him," Orana told him, her voice carefully neutral, "But I've taken the liberty of having the pallet in the alcove made up for your slave."

"That's perfect; thank you, Orana." Fenris sounded relieved, but Hawke was oddly disappointed. _You'd think I'd welcome having a master who didn't treat me like his personal sex toy._

For some reason, he didn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris meets his staff.

"I had no idea this would be so involved," Fenris complained after Orana took Hawke off for a much-needed bath. "I don't know why I let you talk me into it."

Feynriel grinned. "Because I picked up a few things from living here when my mother was Sha'len? Or because I'm always right, which you should know by now?"

Fenris snorted, not quite able to hide his own smile. A century ago when Arianni brought her son back to Arlathan, Feynriel and Fenris had been the only two Fen'lin born to the People in years; they'd bonded over their shared status as outsiders. During their training they'd sparred with spell and blade, the fighter learning to neutralize mages and the mage developing techniques to counter physical attacks. Each of them had sat vigil as the other went through the agonizing process of receiving his vallas'elgar, and they'd traveled together for their first waking trip into the Beyond to be acknowledged by the Dread Wolf.

That hadn't been the only first they'd shared, either. They'd both had other lovers, but they continued to turn to one another; few elvhen were interested in a permanent bond with someone who wouldn't live to see a sixth century. Once, Fenris had even proposed marriage, but Feynriel had turned him down. 

"That's the wine talking," Feynriel had told him. "We'll have an eternity together in service to Fen'Harel no matter what happens. While we're here, you deserve someone who's a better match for you than I am." The next morning, when he was more sober, Fenris agreed. Feynriel had a streak of gentleness to him that was unusual for one the living weapons of the elvhenan. It didn't bother Fenris except in bed, where he felt guilty for wanting to sink his teeth into Feynriel's shoulder until he could taste blood, or to run the tips of his armored gauntlets over Feynriel's skin and leave red marks on his skin. 

Unbidden, the image of Hawke in the cell sprang to mind. In addition to the scars, he'd noticed that Hawke was big even for a human, tall and more muscular that most would expect from a mage. It was too easy to picture him pinned down while Fenris pounded into him until he screamed.

 _No._ Fenris shook his head. He wasn't going to repeat the mistakes of his predecessors by forming an ill-advised attachment to a shemlen slave. _And Creators and the Dread Wolf willing, I won't be here long enough for it to be a problem._

"Ow!" Fenris rubbed his forehead and glared at Feynriel. "What was that for?"

"Just trying to get your attention, lethallin," Feynriel told him, trying and failing to look as if he hadn't just shot a tiny icicle at his commander. "Before you started gathering wool, I'd asked if you wanted me to show you to the audience chamber. You know, so you can meet your new staff?"

"I've already met them, haven't I? When we came here the first time?"

Feynriel sighed. "I know you didn't want this, lethallin, but surely you can see what happens when the Sha'len lets those around him run things. You're going to have to pay attention. Orana said she was going to have everyone gather for formal introductions, remember? Besides, it won't be all bad. Once we're done you can go enjoy your pretty shem."

Fenris glared at his friend. After a long moment, Feynriel looked away. "I didn't claim him to warm my bed," Fenris told him, "but I'll be more than happy to give him to you if you'd like."

Feynriel's panicked response was almost funny. "No! I don't need a slave, thank you. I wouldn't have the first idea what to do with him." 

After going through the trouble of binding him with something uncomfortably close to blood magic, Fenris wasn't about to give Hawke up, but Feynriel didn't need to know that. "Keep needling me about him and I won't give you any choice."

Feynriel shook his head. "You're cruel, Fenris."

"It's been remarked."

The audience chamber was one of the few areas of the Residence that had been dramatically altered since the Tevinter days. The throne room designed to showcase the might of the Imperium and the power of whichever magister had schemed and murdered his way to the Regency had been completely revamped into something more suited to elvhen sensibilities. Stonework had been replaced by painted wooden panels and Rivaini-style mosaics, with the pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling carved to resemble trees. Enormous windows gave the room a spaciousness that invoked the public structures in the great forest-cities of Arlathan and Halamshiral. The Regent's marble throne had been removed and destroyed, replaced by carved ironwood chairs arranged in a half-circle. 

Fenris noted that someone--most likely Orana--had made sure there were six chairs, one for each of the Sha'len's chief advisors, one for Fenris, and the other presumably for Feynriel. All but two of the chairs were occupied; Fenris took an empty one in the center and gestured for Feynriel to take the one next to him.

"Arhim atish’an, all of you." Fenris wasn't really coming in peace, but formalities were important to the People. He nodded to Lia, who was sitting beside Feynriel. "You I know, Guard-Captain, and Hearth-Keeper Orana as well, but I don't believe we've met...?" He turned to the sharp-faced woman seated next to him.

"Athenril, Aman'harel, of Clan Andras," she said. "Land-Keeper of this city--or Seneschal, as the shemlen say it."

Fenris nodded, then looked down to the far end of the semi-circle, where a lanky blond-- _A shem'lin among the Ravens? I suppose it makes a certain sense._ \-- was sprawled across a chair. "And you are the Raven....We met briefly, yes?"

The man stood, bowed, and draped himself over his chair again. "Zevran of Clan Arainai at your service. I am a First Wingmaster of the Ravens, but..." he waved an elegant, long-fingered hand. "That is merely a technicality. I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Aman'harelen."

"Indeed." Fenris nodded toward him. "I look forward to working with you. I am most interested in hearing why the group tasked with watching the shemlen failed to notice a major rebellion developing."

Zevran smiled. "Ah, but I suspect you already know the answer to that, since you have replaced the good Orsino as Sha'len. It was his wish that the shemlen feel the hand of elvhen rule only lightly, which resulted in a certain degree of...permissiveness that encouraged discontent to blossom into open revolt."

It was hard to argue with that, even if something about Zevran made Fenris want to. He glanced around the room, committing faces and names to memory, and frowned. "The First Adept of the An'ethda'lanen isn't here."

"Ah...I can answer that," Feynriel said. "The First Adept isn't considered one of the Sha'len's advisors; he answers only to the Circle of Magi in Arlathan. Orsino is a mage, as was my mother; they served as their own magical advisors. For you, well...that's why I'm here."

Fenris nodded. "Just so I know, who is the First Adept?"

"Huon, of Clan Sabrae." Zevran's face was studiously neutral. Only Feynriel seemed to have any kind of reaction.

"Really? But...he was First Enchanter when my mother was named Sha'len. He's still here? That's...odd." Elvhen who lived among humans rarely stayed more than a century; lyrium mitigated the effects of the Quickening, but the small amounts worn by elvhen in the cities provided protection for a limited time. The full vallas'elgar were very effective at warding off human mortality, but eventually the Fen'lin succumbed to the massive amounts of lyrium in their bodies and died far sooner than other elvhen. The markings gave the Fen'lin other gifts that were deemed of greater use to the People than playing nursemaid to a race of unruly children.

Zevran shrugged in response to Feynriel's remark. "It _is_ odd, isn't it?"

Huffing a sigh between clenched teeth, Fenris made a mental note to discuss the issue with Feynriel later. "I suppose that's all for now, then."

"Is the city still under martial law?" Lia asked.

 _I should have thought of mentioning that._ "Yes. As I indicated earlier, the shemlen are to be allowed to collect their dead and deal with them according to their traditions, but only during daylight hours. The Sha'len'an is to remain closed to all shemlen; no exceptions."

"So we're to send our slaves away?" Athenril asked. Fenris wanted to kick himself.

"That would be the one exception, I suppose." He cleared his throat. "Guard-Captain, I would like you to gather as many of the shemlen as possible at the city gates tomorrow at noon. I intend to deal with the renegade mage responsible for this, and I want to the fate of any who try to emulate him very clear."

"Understood."

"And what of the other mage? I believe he was Danarius's apprentice?" Zevran asked. 

Fenris glance at Feynriel, who turned to Zevran and said, "We have chosen to spare his life, as he served Danarius against his will. Fenris has claimed him as a slave."

Athenril and Zevran both looked surprised, so Fenris quickly added, "Don't think I'm going to be like Orsino, and let my human pet lead me around by the nose."

Zevran grinned at that. "Or by points a bit south of your nose, no doubt."

"Precisely," Fenris ground out from between clenched teeth. He stood. "Thank you all; I will see you at noon tomorrow."

When everyone but Feynriel had left, Fenris pounded one of the carved tree pillars, cursing when his glowing fist went through the stone. "Why does everyone think I can't wait to bed a human? They're big and hairy and not really that attractive, and I'm _not_ interested!"

"Some people find them appealing." Feynriel murmured. Fenris turned and opened his mouth to apologize, but Feynriel waved a hand. "Don't. It's not necessary. I'm only saying that there are those among the elvhen who find the differences between our races...intriguing."

"And yet, while they have a similar shape to us and the shemlen I haven't heard of any of the People taking up with the durgen'len."

Feynriel made a face. "That's certainly true. But the dwarves aren't as much like us as humans are. They have no access to the Beyond, so they don't dream or use magic. And they prefer to live underground, while the shemlen stay above ground as we do. I don't know if it would be possible for a dwarf and one of us to have a child, but clearly, we can breed perfectly well with humans."

Before Fenris could come up with a response that wasn't completely insensitive, Feynriel continued, "I asked my mother once: what's the use in caring for someone when you have so little time with him? She said, 'They burn much too quickly, but so very bright.' Not so different from us, when you think about it."

Feynriel stood and stretched. "You're thinking about this too hard, lethallin. When have we--have you--ever cared what others say? You don't have to use him to warm your bed. He can run errands in the city for you, or take care of your weapons and armor--"

"But he's a mage."

"A renegade mage. From what he said, I don't think he's a runaway; he's never been in the An'ethda'lanen. He can't have survived and eluded the Guard and the Ravens without having skills other than magic." Feynriel waggled his eyebrows. "And frankly, if you _do_ decide to take advantage of those other skills, I don't think he'd object."

"Thanks for that insight," Fenris said sourly. "What would I do without you?"

"Be bored, I'd imagine." Feynriel punched him lightly in the shoulder. "We should go. Orana's probably waiting on us."

She was. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you both to your rooms. I've prepared one of the guest suites for you if that's acceptable, Aman'harel Feynriel?"

Feynriel smiled, and as people tended to do around him, she smiled back. "Considering that sleeping in the barracks would be a step up from some of the places we've been, I'd say that's more than acceptable. I'm fairly sure I remember where the guest quarters are."

"If you're sure..." Orana looked somewhat skeptical. "Do you have any baggage, or anything that needs to be brought up to the suite?"

"We travel lightly," Fenris put in. His warband was almost always on the move, dealing with the Void-spawned horrors that were the legacy of the Tevinter magisters. The demonic incursions had increased in frequency over the past decade, and Fenris had taken to traveling with only what he could stuff into a saddlebag or carry himself. His room in the Fen'lin clan-home was almost empty, and he hardly ever slept in it for more than two nights running.

Feynriel went off toward the guest wing of the Residence. Orana paused for a moment. "Would you like me to fetch your slave, Aman'harel?"

"Er...yes, thank you." As she turned to go down the main staircase, he stopped her. "As you know, I've never had a slave. What, precisely am I expected to have him do?"

She smiled. "Bran is an excellent cook and Cullen and Seamus take care of most of the housekeeping, and that's all I ask of them. Seamus knows the city very well and is fast, so I often send him to do the shopping or deliver messages. You're not required to have a shem around to sleep with; frankly, they're more trouble than they're worth in that regard." She sniffed, then gave him a critical once-over. "Perhaps you might wish to have your Hawke buy something for you to wear while you're here. I imagine that armor must get uncomfortable."

Fenris felt the tips of his ears go red. "I'm used to it," he told her. His armor really was like a second skin; having something cooler to wear in the hot, humid summer months might not be a bad thing. "But...I'll definitely keep that in mind."

Orana nodded. "Cullen should have finished showing him around by now; I'll just be a moment."

Fenris leaned on the marble railing and watched her go, wondering if he'd ever be able to navigate the corridors of his new home as easily as she did. From his vantage point, he could see the entry hall, designed awe and intimidate, not to welcome. Colorful elvhen tapestries hung from the walls, but they did little to soften the forbidding atmosphere. 

_I don't care what Feynriel says; a race that chooses to live surrounded by stone walls has little in common with the People._ Elvhen architecture was designed to harmonize with the natural world, not to set them apart from it. Even the relatively austere clan-home of the Fen'lin looked from the outside like part of the forest--the dark, menacing part.

Bored, Fenris drummed his fingers on the railing. _Orana's definition of 'a moment' must be different from mine._ He was contemplating going to look for her when he heart the faint sound of voices below. Among the gifts granted by the lyrium in his blood was enhanced senses of sight, smell, and sound, but he was a little too far away to make out the conversation. He crept silently down the stairs and peered around a corner to see Orana talking in hushed tones with the Raven. 

"...no idea. You think anyone bothers to tell me anything? I'd expect you to know more than I do."

"I would as well. And yet, although the Ravenmistress sits on the Council, she said nothing of this to me. It's very strange, especially when he was just here. Why recall him to Arlathan only to send him back days later?"

"Did you see him at the gates? Do you know why he killed Meredith? I don't miss her, but I would have expected her to go with Orsino."

Fenris edged closer, keeping just out of sight.

"Perhaps that would have been the case if Orsino was leaving of his own accord. Our wolf sent him back to the Council under guard, as all but a prisoner. From what I overheard, Meredith objected to the idea of being sent to the An'ethda'lanen and was foolish enough to draw steel on a Fen'lin."

"Was it the lyrium?"

"It is an intriguing possibility, no? It makes one wonder how much the Council knows about matters here--and how they are obtaining the information. Especially since the current Ravenmistress is Kin to the Wolf herself and keeps her own secrets."

Fenris ground his teeth. _Give me something to swing a sword at and leave this political nonsense to those who care about such things._

"I must confess that I find our wolf most intriguing. Pity for a human mage seems a bit out of character."

"Yes, when you consider how ruthless he was in putting down the revolt." Orana chuckled softly. "He does seem to be a bit baffled at having a slave. It's almost sweet."

Fenris had heard more than enough. He stepped out of the shadows and strode toward Orana and Zevran. They both noticed him at the same time, their eyes going wide.

"Ir abelas, Aman'harel, I allowed myself to be distracted," Orana said, bowing deeply. 

"Where can I find my slave?" 

Orana pointed. "The kitchen is down the hall and around the corner, but please, allow me--"

"Thank you." Fenris took off, lengthening his stride so the small woman couldn't keep up and heading in the direction she'd indicated.

Finding the kitchen was easy enough; Fenris just followed the scents of food that made his stomach growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten all day. Behind him he heard Orana saying, "I can fetch him; there's really no need--"

Everyone scrambled to their feet as Fenris came into the kitchen. Five of the six humans--all males, Fenris noticed--bowed their heads. The sixth was Hawke, who stared at his master. Fenris raised an eyebrow and at last Hawke remembered himself and looked down.

"Come," Fenris said, and Hawke followed, falling into step several paces behind Fenris and Orana. She glared at Fenris as she led the way upstairs to the Sha'len's suite.

"I do apologize for the delay, Aman'harel. However, in the future, it might be best if you didn't go into the kitchen. I try to let the slaves have that as their space, where they can relax a little."

"I will keep it in mind," Fenris replied. "And that is...thoughtful of you, but don't you worry about them taking advantage of your kindness?"

Orana's expression was incredulous. "You mean, am I afraid they're plotting sedition in the kitchen? Certainly not. They're treated well here: they have a safe place to sleep and they never go hungry, which many of the shemlen in the lower city would be grateful for. What would they have to gain by rebelling?"

 _Their freedom._ Fenris was bound by a bargain made long before his birth, to serve the greater elvhenan, but the idea of being totally subject to the will of another as a thing to be owned was inconceivable to him. _We never had a word for that until we met the Tevinters._ It was an uncomfortable thought.

"Here you are, Aman'harel," Orana said, throwing open the doors to the Sha'len's suite. "If anything is not to your liking, please don't hesitate to let me know."

The bedroom alone was substantially larger than Fenris's quarters in the clan-home, and was dominated by a massive four-poster bed large enough to fit Fenris, Feynriel, and one other member of the warband--two if all involved were good friends. He could see a writing desk past one open door and a private bathroom through another. It was more space than Fenris could ever envision needing, if it weren't for his newly-acquired slave.

"It's fine, except...where is he supposed to sleep?" Fenris asked, nodding in Hawke's general direction.

"Sha'len Orsino kept Meredith with him," Orana said, her carefully neutral tone telling Fenris what she thought of that, "But I've taken the liberty of having the pallet in the alcove made up for your slave."

"That's perfect; thank you, Orana."

Fenris glanced over at Hawke, and for an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross the man's face. _He's not happy that I don't want to make him my personal, unpaid whore? Did the blood mage break him somehow?_

Orana coughed discreetly. "One other thing, Aman'harel Fenris...if you wish, I can send one of my boys out to an armorsmith for a temporary collar. That way he'll have something if he accompanies you tomorrow."

"I don't understand; what do you mean?"

"Something to show his status," she explained. 

Fenris frowned. "I thought that's what the piercing was for."

"Well...not exactly. It's so you can find him if he tries to run."

"Ah. Like a mage's phylactery." On rare occasions, a human mage escaped the An'ethda'lanen. Usually they were caught quickly, turned in by their fellow shemlen. If the mage evaded capture and was deemed sufficiently dangerous, the Fen'lin and their unique abilities might be brought in. 

"Very much like that," Orana said, "And the piercing can be hidden by hair or a hood. A collar is more like a...pass, I suppose you'd say. Anyone can see that a shem wearing one is a slave, and if they're in the Sha'len'an it shows they have permission to be there. I only insist that my boys wear them when the go out, but Zevran and Athenril have theirs collared all the time. If you plan to take your slave to witness the execution tomorrow he'll be with you, of course, but given the circumstances..."

Fenris nodded. "It would be good to make it clear that he is still being punished for his part in the rebellion; that makes sense. Please proceed as you see fit, then."

"Certainly, Aman'harel. You can commission something to your liking later, though if you want a mage collar, you would need to send home for that."

 _Interesting. Even after several years here, Arlathan is still "home" to her._ For some reason, Fenris found that reassuring. He glanced over at Hawke, still standing in the door. Hawke's left hand was clenched in a tight fist, his face studiously blank.

"That won't be necessary, thank you," Fenris told Orana. "I can handle a single mage if he chooses to be difficult." He activated his markings, just enough to make them glow faintly. 

Orana took a step back. "Of--of course, Aman'harel. It will be as you wish. Shall I send someone up with food?" He nodded; Orana turned and practically fled out of the room.

Fenris allowed himself a grim little smile. In the common speech, Aman'harel meant "feared defender". Though the Fen'lin served as the ultimate defense of the elvhenan, the People feared them as much for their connection to the Dread Wolf as for their unsettling abilities. He was not above reminding these city-dwelling elves of what their new Sha'len was.

He turned to look at Hawke, whose expression had changed to one of naked hunger as he looked at Fenris. Realizing that he was still glowing blue, Fenris released the power channeled through his vallas'elgar and let the glow fade.

"You. Hawke." He nodded toward one of the chairs in the room. "Sit down. I don't need you looming over me." He ignored the tiny voice in his head that whispered, _You could order him to his knees, and he would probably thank you for it._

Hawke settled himself somewhat gingerly in an intricately carved wooden chair. Fenris took the matching one and studied his new possession. His features were regular but his small ears a large nose made him seem oddly unfinished in comparison with the elvhen. His hands were big as well, with long fingers currently twitching where they rested on his knees. And like so many male humans, he had hair on his face, though Fenris couldn't tell if it was intentional or if he just hadn't had a chance to shave in several days. Despite himself, Fenris had to admit that he was attractive in a rough sort of way.

 _Enough._ "So tell me: aside from blood magic and fomenting rebellion, do you have any other useful skills?" 

"I'm a fair cook, though I can't imagine you'll need me to do that," Hawke said. "I've been told I have a good voice, but I know it's nothing compared to elven singers."

Fenris found most elvhen music overly complex, and his limited life span meant that spending several days listening to a single composition being performed was not a good use of his time. Hawke's speaking voice was....not unpleasant, and his accent didn't grate on Fenris's sensitive ears like human adaptations of the elvhen tongue normally did. It certainly wasn't what Fenris considered a useful skill, though. "Go on."

"I'm a champion at herding sheep--pretty much anything to do with wool, really--from carding to spinning and dying to knitting. Again, it's not like the stuff you get from the elven goats, but it keeps you warm in the winter. I can sew well enough to mend, but nothing fancy, my--" Hawke bit his lip and quickly said, "I can do pretty much all the other heavy lifting around a farm, though I despise chickens unless they're on a plate. Mean little buggers they are."

"But you're a mage." All of the People had at least enough magic to light a candle or heat water, but those truly gifted, like Feynriel, were rare; Fenris couldn't imaging someone with that talent doing nothing but everyday tasks. 

"A renegade mage," Hawke said with a hint of bitterness, "Who spent most of my life learning to hide who I am and what I can do."

Fenris shrugged. "You could have practiced your art had you gone to the An'ethda'lanen like you were supposed to. All of this is very interesting, but of little use to me. Are you literate?"

Hawke's expression brightened a little. "Oh, yes. I can read and write--though I've been told my rendering of traditional Elven is pretty bad--and I can read and write a little Arcanum. 

"And where did you learn that?" Fenris asked. Hawke squirmed.

"Danarius had some books dating back to the old Imperium. That's where he found most of the blood magic spells and rituals he used."

Fenris made a mental note to have Feynriel track down the books. _The last thing we need is for another ambitious shem to get his hands on those._ "Very well. One of your duties will likely be serving as my scribe. My own hand has been criticized often; I doubt your writing is worse than mine."

Hawke looked startled. "Yes? What is it?"

"I've just never heard an elf admit that a human might be better at something."

One of Fenris's eyebrows went up. "Have you encountered very many of us, then?"

"Er...no, actually. Come to think of it...this is probably the longest conversation I've ever had with an elf."

There was a soft, tentative knock on the door. Fenris looked at Hawke, then at the door, and after a brief hesitation, Hawke went to open it. A slightly built human male who looked very young--though Fenris found it impossible to judge their ages--stood holding a tray in trembling hands. 

Hawke relieved the young slave of his burden. "Thank you--Seamus, right?" The boy nodded, staring between master and slave as though he couldn't decide who frightened him more, and fled, almost tripping over himself in his haste to get away.

"Have you eaten?" Fenris asked as Hawke set the tray on a table. 

"Yes, Master."

"Good. I will want to bathe later; once that's been prepared I will have no further need of you--for the evening," he added quickly at Hawke's panicked look. "I trust you still wish to watch your former master pay for his crimes?"

"You have no idea," Hawke muttered, adding a bit louder, "Very much so, Master." 

"You will accompany me tomorrow and you will have your chance."

Hawke smiled, and once again, Fenris wondered if the An'ethda'lanen was truly so that awful that serving a man he'd clearly loathed seemed like the better alternative. _Maybe Feynriel will be able to tell me more._ He turned his attention to his dinner, poking cautiously at the food before using his sticks to taste a bite. Orana must have trained the cook well, because the food was all complex, precisely balanced flavors and subtle spices, designed to appeal to the elvhen palate. In fact, it was the best meal Fenris had ever eaten outside of Arlathan.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke stand and head toward the bathroom, hesitating in the doorway. He cleared his throat and Fenris looked up.

"I just...thank you, Master. For not killing me. I promise I won't do anything to make you regret that."

"See that you don't," Fenris told him, "Because I can always change my mind."

_Humans are very strange._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **abelas:** ( _sorrow_ ) used alone, is "I'm sorry"; **ir abelas:** would be "I'm very sorry"
> 
>  **An'ethda'lanen:** ( _place safe children_ ) combination prison/school where human mages are kept; equivalent to the Circle
> 
>  **Arhim atish’an:** ( _I/we come in peace_ ) a formal greeting
> 
>  **shem'lin:** ( _human-blooded_ ) child of an elven mother and human father; often possessing human traits like blond hair, very pale or very dark skin, and blue or dark-brown eyes
> 
>  
> 
> An additional note on languages: the official language of the Imperium was called Tevinter. The magisters also used Arcanum as the magical language, much like Church Latin isn't identical to the Latin spoken in the Roman Empire. After the Imperium fell, humans in elven-controlled parts of Thedas gradually adopted the elven language, which by that time had incorporated a number of Tevinter loan words (like "slave"). This became known as the common tongue, used primarily by humans, elves living in human cities, and surface dwarves. Outside the human cities, elves take pride in using the "uncorrupted" form of their language and will often pretend not to understand common.
> 
> Written Elven is character based, much like Chinese. Since humans don't have the time to spend learning thousands of characters, they've developed a simplified version--think traditional written Chinese and the simplified Chinese character set.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets his wish and watches Danarius die. This does not make his life any less complicated.

He was a marked and collared slave, on his way to watch an execution; his sleep had been haunted by sense-memories of Danarius's fingers on his skin--and worse, in his mind--and Hawke felt like singing. Much of it was due to the novelty of simply being outside, and seeing the sky. Even before his arrest he'd spent most of his time in Darktown, the network of old sewer tunnels beneath the city. The Ravens rarely went there, and the Guard almost never did, so it was the safest place in Kirkwall for a renegade mage to hide. 

His smile slipped as he remembered his panic at the sound of ironwood-soled boots getting louder as they approached Anders' makeshift clinic, and then the shock followed by nothingness after Anders stunned him and shoved him in the trunk. When he came to and extricated himself from the trunk, Hawke had tried to search for Anders with magic, seeking for a trace of the taste of his power, still fresh on his tongue...and stepped neatly into the trap Danarius had set, a clueless fly easily caught by a patient spider. That was when he'd learned that Darktown is a safe place for a renegade mage to hide--but not from another renegade mage.

_"I have need of an apprentice. You will do nicely."_

_"I'm really not the one you're looking for. I get queasy at the sight of blood."_

_"As you wish. Perhaps you'll be lucky and the elves will simply confine you to the Spire, rather than killing you. And your sister, of course...."_

Later, Danarius had come up with other ways to bind Hawke to him, though he rarely resorted to direct manipulation with blood magic. He didn't have to. Hawke might have turned himself in if he'd only been worried for himself, but he wasn't going to risk Bethany's freedom. He'd promised his father that he'd keep the family safe and he'd already failed once.

 _Please be okay, Bethy. And Carver too, though I don't give a shit about Gamlen._ Ever since Cullen had lashed out at him, Hawke had been fretting over his family. If his devil's bargain with Danarius had resulted in his sister and brother being hurt, then perhaps he should really save everyone the trouble and throw himself into the Kirkwall harbor.

Realizing that he was in danger of outpacing his master, Hawke slowed, only to have someone step on his heels and make him stumble. 

"Watch it, mage," Cullen growled. Coming up from behind Hawke, Alistair put a hand on his elbow to steady him.

"Thanks," Hawke told him. Alistair nodded.

"Takes a while to figure out your stride, especially when you're tall like us."

The procession of elves and their human slaves passed through the gates of the Sha'len'an into the human-occupied section of Hightown. Here, the effects of the rebellion were more noticeable. Several vendors' stalls in the market area were damaged, their awnings torn and frames smashed. Scorch marks on walls showed where elven mages had unleashed their power on rioters. Hawke hunched his shoulders and kept his eyes fixed on Fenris a few steps ahead of him.

They walked through the empty streets to the plaza at the city entrance where the Spire rose like an elegant finger pointing at the sky, its marble facade contrasting sharply with the old Tevinter gates of iron and black stone. A crowd of humans was packed in between the closed gates and rows of wooden benches that had been set up in front of a wooden platform. Emerald Guards were positioned around the square like green-armored statues.

Fenris hopped up onto the platform, followed by Feynriel. Hawke wasn't sure what he was expected to do; fortunately, Alistair seemed to be willing to take him under his wing, pulling Hawke down onto a bench next to him. A blond elf sat on Hawke's other side and gave him a frankly appraising look.

"You must be our wolf's pet Hawke," his rich, sultry voice making Hawke squirm a little. "I do see why he claimed you."

 _So does everybody, it seems--except for my master._ Hawke bit the inside of his cheek to keep the thought from making it out of his mouth.

Alistair chuckled. "Zev--I mean, Master, you're making him uncomfortable. He's new to this; give him a break, why don't you?"

That got Hawke to look up; what kind of slave talked to his master like that? From the sound of it, though, Alistair was used to being less than formal with him. It seemed strange--the reputation of the Ravens was only slightly less terrifying than that of the Wolf-Kin--but he was just grinning at Alistair and didn't seem annoyed in the least.

"Don't worry. I'm not foolish enough to challenge our wolf over you, tempting though the prize might be." He reached up and tugged on a strand of hair that had come loose from Hawke's braid, and Hawke shivered, willing himself not to lean into the touch, starved for physical contact as he was. 

"Heads up--they're about to get started," Alistair murmured. Two guards were dragging Danarius onto the platform and securing him to a wooden stake. Hawke wondered if they were going to burn him alive. _I'm not sure even he deserves that._

Danarius wore a mana-draining collar as well as shackles on his wrists and ankles, but wisely, the elves were taking no chances; Feynriel took up position behind Danarius, his markings glowing ever so slightly. Fenris stepped forward and even though he was a head shorter than Danarius, he seemed to tower over him, projecting the cold menace that made the Wolf-Kin so feared. 

"Danarius of Kirkwall," Fenris intoned, his voice raising the hair on the back of Hawke's neck, "You are guilty of practicing magic outside the confines of the An'ethda'lanen, of using forbidden magic, of consorting with demons, and of inciting revolt. Do you have anything to say before I send you to meet your gods?"

"Kill the mage!" a human yelled from the back of the crowd. Other human voices took up the chant, and within moments the plaza reverberated with cries of "Kill him!" It was much different from the last time Danarius had addressed a crowd, when they'd stood raptly listening to him claim the legacy of the Tevinter magisters. Even Hawke, who knew all too well what fueled his master's unnatural charisma, had almost believed the promises that humans could rise up against their elven overlords to claim the power that was rightfully theirs. It had been easy to forget in the moment that the only power Danarius was interested in was his own.

Feynriel had assured Hawke that he'd removed all the magical links with Danarius, but Hawke could hear that hated voice in his head, like syrup and ground glass: _"These fools are sheep to be herded and penned before the slaughter, nothing more. As long as you concern yourself with their fate, you will never be more than they are."_ As though he was being pulled on a string, Hawke raised his head and looked up into Danarius's eyes.

"I see someone has claimed my errant Hawke," he said, his voice cracked and rough but still capable of captivating an audience. "I don't blame you; the lad is quite skilled. He might have even made a competent magister in time."

Hawke tried as hard as he could to shrink into his borrowed clothes. A rustle went through the crowd as humans and elves alike tried to figure out who the soon-to-be-dead mage was talking about. Danarius turned his gaze on Fenris, who folded his arms over his chest and scowled. "Has he told you everything he did in my service? Or did he try to convince you that I forced him to stay as my apprentice? No matter. You'll find that however far you let him fly, he always returns to the glove."

"Enough." Fenris never raised his voice, but it still cracked like a whip and for the first time in the year that he'd known him, Hawke saw Danarius flinch. Fenris's markings began to glow, dimly at first and gradually becoming bright enough that Hawke could make out the pattern of the lyrium lines beneath his master's black armor. 

"For your crimes, your life is forfeit," Fenris continued, "and by the power granted to me as Kin to the Wolf, in the Creators' names, I will carry out the sentence now. May you wander lost and forgotten in the Beyond until the Dread Wolf devours your soul." He raised one luminous blue hand and plunged it into Danarius's chest.

Danarius's teeth were clenched in a rictus grin and his entire body bowed as he strained against the chains holding him fast. Then he screamed. Hawke glanced to his right and saw that Alistair had turned several shades paler; on his left, Zevran's face was impassive except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. Hawke would have welcomed the screams a moment later when he heard the wet, squishing noise as Fenris withdrew his arm, Danarius's still-beating heart pulsing in his hand. Then everything went silent, the only sound the slow drip of blood onto the platform.

"So end all those who would threaten the peace of the elvhenan," Fenris said, dropping Danarius's heart on the ground before turning and walking away. He gave Hawke a curt nod as he passed, and Hawke scrambled to his feet, conscious of everyone's eyes on him. He stared straight ahead at the back of his master's neck and followed him past the crowd.

"Julian?" 

Hawke stopped dead. This time when someone ran into him, he didn't notice; he was too busy staring at the group of humans clustered at the end of the rows of benches. A small dark-skinned woman with features he knew as well as his own--people outside the family often mistakenly thought he was her twin, not Carver--stood watching him, her hands clenched in the fabric of her dark green mage's robe, the distinctive garb of a Spire enchanter.

"Bethy?" he whispered. _No, this can't be. She's safe with Gamlen. This is all wrong._

"And who is this, Bethany?" A tall elf stood to Bethany's right. Black hair was pulled tightly back from a face that was much paler than elves usually were; with his light grey eyes and his height it hinted at was human blood in his family line, and probably not far back.

"This...this is my brother, Hahren," Bethany told him, her voice trembling slightly. 

"Your brother." He turned to Hawke, studying him in a way that was too reminiscent of the late, unlamented Danarius. "I seem to recall that when we brought you into the fold, you assured us that your sibling has no magical gift."

Bethany swallowed. "I...forgive me, Hahren. Carver isn't a mage; Julian is. But I thought he was dead. I haven't seen him in two years."

Once Bethany was old enough to sit still for lessons, Malcolm Hawke often taught his mage children together. There was an easy, unspoken understanding between them that neither had with Carver, and even after so long apart, Hawke could still tell when his sister was frightened. Before he could do anything monumentally stupid, however, Fenris noticed that his slave wasn't behind him.

"What's going on, Hawke?" he demanded, turning around and striding back, scowling. The inappropriate part of him Hawke could never quite suppress noted that his master's irritated face was very sexy. The thought only lasted for an instant though, because a metallic rattling drew his attention to the Spire adept's right.

The human looked awful. His blond hair hung lank around his drawn face. He clearly hadn't shaved--or been allowed to shave--in several days, and the heavy stubble did his sallow complexion no favors. There were no obvious signs of abuse or injury except for the lyrium-runed collar around his neck and the matching manacles on his wrists. Only his brown eyes showed any signs of life as he stared at Hawke.

"Anders," Hawke whispered. _Just when I thought this day couldn't get worse._

"Aman'harel...Fenris, correct? I am deeply honored to meet you at last." The tall elf bowed. "I am Huon of Clan Sabrae, First Adept of the An'ethda'lanen and shepherd to our little flock."

Standing next to Fenris, Feynriel nodded to Huon. "Arhim atish’an, Huon. I'm surprised you're still here." Hawke could almost feel the temperature dropping around them.

"Feynriel, da'len--though I suppose I should say, 'Aman'harel Feynriel', shouldn't I? I am pleased to see you grown into your full power. And yes, I chose to remain in this An'dorfdurgen. I believe it is important that our charges have someone to watch over them who cares about their well-being."

 _He could be more condescending, but he'd really have to work at it,_ Hawke thought. Malcolm Hawke had rarely spoken of his time in the Kirkwall Spire, but when Bethany asked him flat-out why it was so awful, he'd explained, _"In their language the Spire is called_ An'ethda'lanen. _It means 'a place to keep children safe'. To them, we're all not-very-bright children who must be controlled and disciplined to keep us from running wild. Human mages? We're not-very-bright children playing with tinderboxes in a dry field."_

Hawke also remembered his father mentioning a Huon, _That can't be the same one, can it? I know elves live a long time, but..._

Feynriel didn't look like he was buying Huon's line any more than Hawke was. "I see. In other words, the Circle couldn't find anyone else willing to take the job, so you're stuck here waiting for someone else to screw up and get sent here."

Anders chuckled, and spoke for the first time: "I think I like--" Before he could finish the sentence, however, Huon made a gesture with his long fingers and the lyrium runes on Anders' fetters blazed. To his credit, Anders didn't scream, but Hawke knew him well enough to be able to tell he was in a great deal of pain.

There was a flash of blue as Feynriel activated his markings, his mouth set in a tight line. He reached out and touched a finger to Anders' collar, catching him easily when he stumbled forward. Huon looked furious, but before he could say anything Fenris stepped in between the two elven mages.

"You have an interesting way of caring for your charges, First Adept," he said dryly. Huon glared at him for a long moment before smoothing his face into something resembling a smile.

"Like any other children, shemlen mages sometimes require a firm hand. I felt it was important that they all see the consequences of practicing unsanctioned magic outside our walls, but as this one has tried to escape the An'ethda'lanen on multiple occasions, I thought it necessary to take certain precautions."

Huon looked directly at Hawke and raised an eyebrow. "Under the circumstances, it seems I was right to do so. I was not aware that our Anders had gotten himself mixed up with a renegade blood mage. I confess that I am...surprised...that you chose to be so merciful, but certainly, you are more than capable of keeping him under control."

Fenris hooked a finger underneath Hawke's collar, yanking him off his feet. "Yes," he told Huon, "I am. Feynriel, shall we?" He strode off; Hawke followed close on his heels, risking a single glance backward. Anders was watching him, but Bethany was staring down at the ground. 

As they walked back to the Sha'len'an, Hawke could hear the two Wolf-Kin discussing something too quiet and fast for him to catch. Fenris checked every so often to make sure Hawke was following. The other slaves--Alistair included--gave them a wide berth, but Hawke was too busy trying to make sense of everything that had just happened to take much notice. Anders being back in the Spire was no surprise; he'd hoped his friend had managed to escape the Guard, deep down he'd always known how unlikely that was. But Bethany getting caught.... _If Gamlen turned her in, I don't care if he's family; he gets a lightning bolt up his ass. And what's happened to Carver?_

When they returned to the Residence, Hawke stood in the main hall, not sure where to go until Fenris growled, "Upstairs. I believe we have some things to discuss." He followed his master upstairs to the bedroom. Fenris immediately settled in the chair Hawke already thought of as "his"; on impulse, Hawke knelt on the thick carpet. Fenris raised an eyebrow, but didn't instruct him to move.

"You knew those two mages," he said without preamble. "Was it from the An'ethda'lanen?"

Hawke blinked. _He thinks I escaped the Spire._ "No, Master. I was never there in the first place. I met Anders not long after I came to Kirkwall. Bethany...is my younger sister."

"I see. And did they know of your...involvement with Danarius?"

"No! Spirits, no! I hadn't seen Bethany in years, and Anders...he's kind of how Danarius found me. The Guard came for him, to take him back, and he hid me...gave himself up so they wouldn't take me. I tried to use magic to trace him, and Danarius was there, waiting."

Fenris steepled his fingers under his chin. "Why did you lose contact with your sister? Ah--you may sit, by the way."

Carpet or no, Hawke and his knees were extremely grateful for the reprieve. "Thank you, Master," he said, folding his legs under him. "I'm--we're--not from Kirkwall. Well, my father was. He got out of the Aneth--the Andathalen--the Spire, and he and my mother ran off down south, near Halamshiral. Bethany and I turned out to have magic, although our brother Carver didn't. Father taught both of us."

"And it was from him that you learned to fear the An'ethda'lanen?"

"Father said that it depended on who the First Adept was, and in Kirkwall..." Hawke trailed off as he finally confronted the obvious. "Huon. That was the name he mentioned. I thought it was a title, but it's his name, isn't it? He was the First Adept twenty-five years ago."

"Yes, so I've been told," Fenris said. His brow furrowed in a way that Hawke thought was rather cute. "Does that surprise you?"

Hawke tugged on his braid. "Well...I guess not. I just hadn't put it all together."

Fenris stared at him, then shrugged as if to say, _Humans._ "How did your family end up back here, then?"

"Believe me, we wouldn't have if there'd been any other choice. The Blight happened."

Fenris looked confused, which surprised Hawke until he realized that the elves must have another word for it.. "The Blight--you know, darkspawn all over the place burning everything the warbands missed?" The bitterness in his own voice surprised him. 

"Do you know why?" Fenris' voice was almost gentle. "Despite what you may believe, it isn't because we hate humans. Quite the contrary."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Are you really going to tell me it's because you care for our well-being?"

"It's the truth," Fenris snapped. "What you shemlen call 'darkspawn' are simply demons from the Beyond, drawn here by the magisters. They remain because they have learned to survive in borrowed bodies. Human mages are their first choice; failing that, any living human, and failing _that,_ the dead. Without a host, we can banish them back to the spirit realm, and the only way to ensure they have no host is to leave nothing they can use."

Hawke was silent for a long time. Finally he nodded. "That...makes sense, I guess. Didn't matter why, though, we had to run. We managed to get to Val Chevin, and then took ship to Kirkwall."

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "Given what you've told me of your father, I'm surprised he was willing to return."

"He died a year before the Blight," Hawke said flatly. My mother still had family here, and where else were we going to go? It seemed like the best of bunch of bad options..." He closed his eyes. "My mother died on the passage, but her brother--our uncle--was willing to pay the bribes to get us in after the city was closed. At least, he was until he realized that two of us were mages. He said his contacts might be able to take Bethany or me, but not both. I'm the oldest and it was my responsibility so...I ran. I figured it would give Bethy--and Carver, too--a better chance without me around. I went down into the Undercity, where I met Anders."

"And later, Danarius," Fenris concluded. 

Hawke sighed. "Yes, though it was more like he found me. He'd been looking for what he called an apprentice, and _I_ called a slave. I told him I wasn't interested, and...he threatened to turn me in. And Bethany. If it had just been me, maybe...but I'd promised my father I'd look out for her. For all of us."

"So Danarius made you his thrall?"

Hawke shifted, uncomfortable not just from sitting on the floor. "Not...exactly. I could have walked away. I tried once, but I couldn't break the a link between us. He could use my blood to fuel his spells, even from a distance, and he could enter my dreams. He didn't want me to be a puppet on his string, though. He liked it when I tried to fight him." _And he liked it even more when I lost, and I hated myself for it._

"Did he, ah..." Fenris hesitated; Hawke knew what he was going to ask, and had known ever since Danarius flung his parting barbs at him. He didn't see any point in dancing around it.

"Did he rape me?" Hawke studied the backs of his hands. "No. It's not...I didn't _like_ it, but if he was...if he was fucking me then he wasn't cutting me open or rummaging around in my mind." It was as close to the truth as Hawke was willing to get to himself, let alone a strange elf. _The strange elf who_ owns _me._

Fenris studied Hawke for a while, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "You aided a blood mage, but it seems that you were at least partially in thrall to him. You acted to aid your family, which is commendable, but your goal was to keep out of the An'ethda'lanen, which is against the law." He rested his chin on his hands. "All things considered, I suppose that justice is served by your spending the rest of your life as a slave."

Hawke nodded. "That's fair." At Fenris's look, he quickly added, "Master. Thank you."

"So glad you approve." Fenris leaned forward, green eyes intent on Hawke. "Your life is mine now, Hawke. When I order you to follow--or to do anything else--I expect to be obeyed. Disobey me again in public and there will be consequences, and I promise that you will not like them. Do I make myself clear?"

His master's low growl made Hawke squirm, his borrowed breeches suddenly feeling rather tight. "Yes, Master. Quite clear."


End file.
